


Finding Haven

by jdwtpa74



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:25:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdwtpa74/pseuds/jdwtpa74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the victory at Redcliff, Dorian must decide whether to return to Tevinter with Felix or formally join the Inquisition and journey to Haven</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Haven

**Author's Note:**

> \- I've tried to make this as close to cannon and as true to character as possible  
> \- Timeline-wise this takes place just after the mages are ejected from Redcliff after "In Hushed Whispers"
> 
> Let me know what you think! Please leave comments and/or kudos

_Swish…thock._  

Woodcutting is a common enough sound in camp that it does not immediately draw Dorian’s attention.  His focus is currently divided between setting out his own meager bedroll and scattering a handful of minor wards.  He does more so out of habit than necessity, for despite evidence to the contrary Dorian feels remarkably safe among these Inquisition soldiers.  Though he will always remain mindful (he is a foreign mage in their land, an apostate, after all) he has managed to carve out some modest respect for himself.  In proper company, such as this, respect is worth more than gold.  It has at least earned him a spot in their camp instead of among the rebel mages encamped close by.  With Alexis’s betrayal so fresh in their minds, a night spent among his fellow mages would prove…eventful for him indeed.  The Inquisition’s late afternoon journey has taken them far enough from Redcliff to avoid further incident with Ferelden’s young king, but not far enough, it seems, to escape their own festering bitterness.

 _“Yet another stone in Tevinter’s cairn.”_ Dorian thinks to himself, pulling a stub of candle from his backpack then thinking better of it.

Tonight’s journey has been a short one, due in part to the lateness of the hour as much as logistics.  The rebel mages were unprepared to move, or at least move quickly, but tomorrow would be a new day.  Dorian has already overheard the dark haired seeker pushing for a more urgent pace, a debate she is sure to win.  They could not remain in the Hinterlands without fear of immediate Templar reprisal, and not withstanding a number of defections, the knights remained a formidable army.  A formidable magic-nullifying army.  The thought is enough to make him shudder, and realize that he’s better off trying to get as much sleep as possible before tomorrow’s inevitable early start.  Camp has been made in the remains of a burned out village.  It ought to serve as a reminder of war’s terrible price, but Dorian knows the finer points are lost on many of his magic-wielding counterparts.  Years from now, when they are bent and hobbled by age, they will finally realize there are no victors in war, only survivors.     

Having no tent to speak of, Dorian has selected a cabin in better shape than most.  With a handful of dried rushes and a shockingly mundane display of domesticity, he clears the stone floor of rubble.  The only magic involved are the wards he casts against vermin, especially those insects who seem to have developed a taste for devastatingly handsome Tevinter expatriates.  His next order of business should be making a fire.  Even if reading were not on tonight’s agenda, food and warmth most certainly were.

_Swish…thock._

The sound says wood…or more precisely…chopped wood.  Dorian casts a disparaging look around his campsite.  Creating flame by magic is a simple matter of concentration and focus, keeping said flame alight was another matter entirely.  Fire, even fire created by magic, requires fuel.  Other than the dried reeds he swept with earlier, there is a dearth of conveniently flammable material.  Oh, there is plenty of wood in his partially collapsed shelter, but Dorian is at loathe to move so much as splinter lest gravity decide to complete its job.  He reasons that even a partial roof is better than open sky.  Another involuntary shudder writhes over his spine, and he cannot help looking up only to be greeted by a spectacular sunset.  As he takes in the truly glorious shades of blazing peach, scarlet, and ice blue, he forces himself to breathe regularly.  There is no swirling maelstrom of poisonous green or ash-laden sky.  That sky is a future that cannot…will not…come into existence.  It’s a simple thought, but a fortifying one none the less.  If only his guilt was so easy to dispel.

 _“The spell you created made such a future possible, well done Pavus!”_ his conscience jeers _“Look what your pride has wrought you strutting cockerel.  It should have been you locked in one of those cells letting red lyrium slowly chew you apart.  An infection indeed!”_

His thoughts invariably turn to Felix who is, even now, languishing somewhere close-by under guard.  Gentle Felix whose plan worked so brilliantly, who’s failing body only required that he call on Dorian’s strength in what may well prove to be his last great endeavor.  Alexis’s son is twice the man either of them will ever be and he is dying.   In the morning he will be gone, dispatched back to Minrathus with a small handpicked honor guard.  Dorian really ought to accompany him, a fact that has been heavily suggested by the seeker, but he cannot can he?  Not when his dreams are still haunted by a green sky.  By the Maker, he can still be of use in this fight!  He will atone for his mistakes, and for all of Tevinter if necessary!

 _“But you can just as easily atone by saving Tevinter from within!”_ his nagging conscience whispers.  _“You have a duty to your countrymen that is no less important.”_

_Swish…thock._

Dorian blows out a shaky, frustrated sigh.  None of this doubt will build a fire, or put food in his belly.  Regardless of his decision, he knows he will have plenty of time to brood on the road.  For now he must tend to more basic needs. Camp is still a hive of activity when he finally emerges, and Dorian is stricken by a momentary sense of vertigo.  It feels as if should be later, at least according to his body, and he wonders if this may be an unintended side effect of time travel, or just simply being too tired to really care.  He makes a mental note to go over Alexis’s journal and see if his former patron recorded similar observations.  It’s vaguely depressing that he can no longer think of Alexis as a mentor or even friend.  A few weeks ago the pain of loss had been more acute, but being exiled to a ghastly future of one’s “friend’s” own devising had a numbing effect on one’s sensibilities.  Unbidden, and quite against his will, Dorian’s eyes flick up to the sky once more.  A few high clouds rendered silver and blushing pink by the setting sun have painted themselves across the vast panorama.  How perverse that such a thing of beauty could be marred by a sucking void into the Fade.  How perverse that it is his research, his esoteric theory that will make it all possible.

 _“Come off it Pavus!”_ he chides himself _“Every man is capable of his own thought.  You think you are the first to ever have his work perverted by another?  Has not the work of Andraste herself been twisted to serve those more selfish?  If you are so bloody intent on sacrificing yourself, why not join her in the fire?”_

_Swish…thock!_

The axe falls again as if to underscore the furious voice in his head, and Dorian uses that anger to propel himself forward.  Even if he does not completely feel it, he draws all the pomp, smarm, wit, and arrogance at his disposal around like a cloak.  It serves to deflect the worst stares and whispers as he struts through camp as if he were the Maker’s second coming.

_“Wonder what he’s still doing ‘ere?”_

_“Damn Vents, pissing all over the Maker’s creation once wasn’t enough for them?”_

_“I dunno, but I’m sleeping with my dagger tonight.  He’s not about to use me for some blood magic ritual!”_

It’s all too much, Dorian cannot help the smirk twitching at his lips.

“You do yourself a disservice by reinforcing their beliefs…if you intend to stay.”

The regally accented voice stirs him from his musings and Dorian turns to find his pace matched by the seeker.  Though her tone holds a note of reproach, he can see wry amusement glittering in her liquid brown eyes.

“You’re a Nevarran and a Pentaghast too unless I miss my guess,” Dorian chuckles mirthlessly, choosing to ignore her jibe about leaving as he is still unsure about that himself “I expect they tarred you with the same brush, no?”

Cassandra acknowledges his acumen with a barely noticeable inclination of her head and smirk of her own “I was the scourge of my chantry.  The Corpse Bride they called me, terribly amusing of course.”

“And?”

Her smirk evolves into a wolfish grin “They quickly found I had more in common with my dragon hunting relatives.”

Dorian barks out a laugh.  In the short time he’s spent in the Inquisition’s company, he’s seen more than adequate evidence of the seeker’s prowess with a blade. “I have no doubt.”

“Have you eaten?”

The low growl trilling from his stomach says more than Dorian could with words alone.  He has the grace to duck his head in embarrassment “Yes…well, that answers that I suppose.”

Cassandra thrusts a wooden bowl in his hand “Ram stew, Sera’s recipe.”  She must notice the dubious expression on his face because she feels the need to add “It’s surprisingly edible.”

Dorian opens his mouth to thank her, but she’s gone.  He watches her long legs march across camp barking orders at a few loitering scouts.  The stew is, as promised, surprisingly edible.  Sera’s hand with Orlesian spices is as deft as her hand at the bow.  He’d compliment her, but she’d probably only try to sell him another bookmark.  He’s been duped into buying one already but Sera insisted it had been made from the pantaloons of a treacherous noble…so really how could he refuse?       

_Swish…thock._

Dorian meanders towards the sound, tipping his bowl and shamelessly licking the bottom.  Maker, did she use Antivian brandy in the gravy?  Perhaps this does merit another bookmark.  A crust of bread, he thinks, would be just about perfect right now.  His mother would be appalled by the general degradation of his table manners, and Dorian can almost hear her voice ringing cold with admonishment.

_“Dorian, we are not in Ferelden.  We do not eat with the dogs.”_

His moustache has been doused with the pleasantly aromatic dregs of his stew.  Somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to give two shits about propriety, and that’s just fine.  With a full belly, he feels more like himself, jaunty walk and all, now he only needs to procure warmth for the night.  A fiendish thought breezes its way through Dorian’s mind, whispering to him that there are ways other than (and far more pleasant than) fire to stay warm.  It is with this notion in mind that he follows his ears certain his unseen axman will provide him with firewood…if nothing else.

_Swish…thock._

“Divine Andraste, Prophet of the Maker, hear my chant….” The prayer escapes Dorian’s lips with a quiet, strangled gasp.

He finds himself on the edge of a sun dappled clearing, draped in shadow as is his custom, watching a tableau that could have been pulled from any of his more recent fantasies.  He is keenly aware of the active and vibrant camp humming over his shoulder, yet here behind a small screen of trees it seems a world away, as intimate as any boudoir.  Dorian shakes his head, trying to vainly dispel all thoughts of bedrooms and tangled warm bodies.  It is a nearly impossible task as his gaze is riveted to the form of Eric Trevelyan.  Even stripped to the waist like a common man, Andraste’s Herald retains an indefinable air of command.  He is a study in contrasts: a man with a boy’s face, strong yet tender-hearted, intelligent but sometimes painfully naïve, noble-born but oh so approachable... a warrior who did not relish war.  

A measure of afternoon sunlight glints over Trevelyan’s sweat-glazed skin and burnishes it deep golden amber.  It flows over the classic lines of his brawny torso like water flowing over stone in a brook, shadowed only by a fine dusting of hair on his chest and a thicker line that arrows tantalizingly from his navel to disappear into his leather breeches.  The compulsion to trace his nose along that taut line, to find its root, is so physical that it almost hurts, and Dorian covers his mouth to stifle the moan he feels building there.  He can unequivocally guarantee that it will smell of man, and sweat, and honest labor, a combination so pure that it would drive away the remembered stench of that horrid charnel future.  That it should exist in the form of this comely young man Dorian has quite literally journeyed to hell and back with is the most exquisite of tortures.  Trevelyan, for his part, seems blissfully unaware of the effect his presence has on people.  Even now he stands in the clearing, sculpted arms draped casually over the wooden haft of his axe, only slightly winded from his physical assertions.  Judging by the cord of wood stacked neatly to his side the young nobleman should be breathing harder, yet his is not a form shaped by vanity.  His physicality speaks instead of training and discipline.  That it should come together so perfectly is only by the Maker’s favor.  His face is turned away, graceful neck (another body party Dorian would gladly kill to taste at this very instant) bent in weariness, as he surveys the fruits of his labor.

“Thank you,” a familiar voice rasps causing Dorian to start “this is more than I needed.”

Felix?  Had he really been so absorbed by the sight of a man he barely knew, that he failed to notice a man he called a brother?  He is ashamed to discover that yes…yes he has been just that oblivious.  Felix languishes against a tree stump, propping up an axe of his own.  His angular features are drawn with effort, but he seems…deliriously happy.  Dorian considers himself a man of the world bordering on jaded, but he is well and truly gobsmacked.  He has known Felix since childhood, whispered secrets with him in the dead of night, but he has never seen the man (even when he was hale and hearty) work a day in his life.

“Told you,” Eric pants out a laugh in his deep, rolling voice that Dorian can feel in his toes “best form of therapy.”

Felix chuckles “I might have cheated there at the end with a little elemental magic, but you’re right.”  He spares a wry glance at his fellow woodsman “At least I know that manual labor won’t kill me.”

Trevelyan quirks an eyebrow “Thus, irony.”

“She is a harsh mistress.” Felix agrees.

Dorian purses his lips at the gallows humor, but both men are laughing heartily enough.  It does something to him, watching the easy comradery develop between his best friend and a man that compels him like no other.  He is jealous, enticed, sad, and happy all at the same time.  It is disconcerting for a man who, prior to today, was as sure of the universe as his place in it.  He’s mad, he knows, for wanting to stay and fight.  His battles should be in the halls of the Magisterium, not in the scrubby Hinterlands of Ferelden, or Maker knows where else.  Trevelyan’s laughter catches his attention once more and Dorian is captivated by the even, white smile dimpling that strong jaw, the shadow of a beard that frames those full lips, those heather-colored eyes that spark with passion and depth.  Then there is Felix…gaunt now, but still handsome enough to turn a courtier’s head.  Soft spoken and quick witted, Shadow to Eric’s light, whose only certainty is that he will die in the very near future.  Dorian reaches down to massage his chest, equally surprised by the dull ache spreading under his muscle and sinew.  He finds that he can no longer stand here in the shadows, it’s simply too painful remain.

\---------------

Dawn comes with somber fanfare.  It is cool, misty, and grey as if the Maker requires balance for yesterday’s spectacular sunset, or perhaps it is just his cynical mood.  Dorian isn’t surprised to find another bedroll occupying his cabin, but is surprised to see a polished suit of familiar dragon scale armor laid out by an equally familiar dozing form.  Eric’s neatly trimmed hair is the color of roasted chestnuts, and Dorian has to fight against the urge to run his fingers through it.  He snatches his hand back at the last possible second, balling it into a fist to bring the shaking appendage back under control.

 _“Why is he here?”_ Dorian thinks viciously _“He has a tent.  Maker’s breath, this is torment!”_

He could only describe last night’s sleep as “fitful”, and that was after applying a liberal dose of charity.  He’s amazed that he did not hear Trevelyan’s approach.  His being here does not make the consequences of Dorian’s choice any easier, yet it does not change his mind.  He knows what must be done, what has to be done.  Resolved he stands quietly, packs his bedroll and fastens his best travel cloak to his buckled leather armor.  Turning he notices the embers of a dying fire in the cabin’s old stone hearth.  Shifting his gaze back to Trevelyan, he notices the man is only wrapped in a common wool blanket and curses him for a fool.  Even were he not Andraste’s purported Herald, he was a noble of Ostwick.  The man has furs, embroidered velvet draperies, and a cot yet here he was sleeping like a ruffian.  A few splinters of wood have been stacked near the fireplace, and Dorian absently grabs one to stoke the flames.

“Good Morning.” A gruff voice, rendered gruffer by virtue of having just woken up, greets him.

Dorian closes his eyes and takes a deep steadying breath.  _“Resolved!”_ he tells himself _“You.  Are.  Resolved!”_

“Good Morning.” He replies without turning “My apologies if I disturbed you.”

“You’re leaving.”  It’s not a question, and Dorian wonders if he is imagining the resigned tone in Eric’s voice.

It piques his curiosity enough to look over his shoulder and suck in a breath at the look of confusion on Trevelyan’s face and a fleeting glimpse of sadness, regret, longing?

_“Merciful Andraste, lend me strength.”_

“Yes,” he clears his throat and attempts a smile that rings so false it makes him sick to his own stomach “I’ve sewn enough chaos and discord in Ferelden.  I’d say my work here is done, don’t wish to overstay my welcome you know.”

Eric regards him solemnly “Is that what you think?”

Dorian sighs, giving up his pretense “No, but I’m afraid my fellow countrymen have done little to endear themselves.”

“You are nothing like them.”

It’s spoken with such earnestness that Dorian has to turn back to the fire lest the blighted welling in his eyes be noticed.

“Dorian….”

“You’ve more than held to your end of our little bargain, Lord Herald, and I thank you for your service.”  Dorian is frankly amazed at how light and carefree his voice sounds when he feels anything but…especially after he hears the weary sigh at his back.

“I…the Inquisition…could use your help.  This is far from over.”

Dorian smiles bitterly, but dares not turn his head again to see those hazel eyes imploring him to stay “I know, but the Venatori are my problem and you have more important matters to attend to.  Besides, I need to see Felix safely home…I owe him at least that much.”

“I can help you…we can help you with the Venatori….”

“Lord Herald”

“Eric.”

Dorian grits his teeth and says firmly “Lord Herald, I have waking terrors about that bleak future.  To know I am partially responsible for it has killed a little piece of me….”

“Dorian!  Maker’s breath that was no more your fault than….”

“It was my work.” Dorian cuts him off.  “My spell, my research, my idea.”  He takes a deep breath willing his mercurial temper and deep self-loathing back under control.  “I won’t have it come to pass, not if I have a means to fight it.  The Venatori are like a poison, and that poison must be stopped at the source.”

He tosses one last splinter of wood on the fire before shouldering his gear.  Its weight is far less crushing than his guilt, and he turns back one last time to see Eric with his hand over his face.

“Thank you again,” Dorian murmurs “truly.  I’m aware we had a mutual self-interest in seeing matters through to the end, but you cannot know the untold good your actions have wrought…what it will mean for Tevinter.  For what it’s worth, I believe in you.”

Eric looks up at him, eyes tired looking and red-rimmed.  “Thank you.”

Dorian nods tightly, then turns to go.

\---------------

It is noontime, and the sun has done little to chase away today’s leaden grey sky.  Instead it has created a false sense of timelessness that is dispelled only by changing scenery.  Their small party has stopped to water the horses and lunch on traveler’s bread, apples, and hard cheese.  The apples are a fortunate happenstance, chanced upon in an abandoned orchard…at least Dorian hopes it is simply abandoned.  A smoldering cottage set further back from the road, and the grim faces of their escorts when they’d returned from scouting seemed to mock this vain hope.  Though sweet and crisp, the fruit had taken on a vague taste of ashes in Dorian’s mouth after that.  So much to be done here…so much to recover from, and he’d only played a small part.  He could not prevent his thoughts from straying back to Eric Trevelyan, upon whose shoulders everything else rested…whose patient hazel eyes betrayed his every emotion to the world…whose sword complimented Dorian’s staff in battle like they had fought together all their lives.

“And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world.” Felix’s dry voice intones.

“What?” Dorian looks up from his musings to find his friend staring at him pensively.

“I said your company is piss.” This statement is accompanied by a dry crust of bread being pitched towards his head.

“I see…,” Dorian drawls “so you quote “doom upon all the word”, hmmm?”

Felix grins at his own sense of humor.  He has forsaken his magister robes in lieu of basic leather armor and scout tunic.  For this moment in time he looks healthy, a brightly scrubbed recruit of the Inquisition.

“What a colorful vocabulary you’ve developed since…,” Dorian allows his gaze to travel archly over Felix’s ensemble “going native.”

“Sod off, as the native expression goes then.” Felix laughs, though not unkindly “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?  Anyone’d think you were the one dying.”

“Felix, really this dark humor….”

He laughs again “Oh Dorian, come off it!  I can’t describe how…liberating this feels.”

“Reckless.” Dorian chastises and actually tuts like an old lady, he is inwardly horrified by his own actions.

“No,” Felix sits forward, no longer laughing but smiling earnestly “but it does cause one to prioritize.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, grinning in spite of himself “Provincial air agrees with you.”

“Yes,” Felix agrees “but we are not talking about me.”

“Caught that, did you?”

“You’re hardly an Orlesian bard, old salt.” Felix replies smugly.  “Now what’s gotten into you?  Do I need to be concerned about possession by a despair demon?”

Dorian scoffs “Can you honestly see me falling victim to a demon of despair?  Arrogance perhaps, or if I may speak candidly, lust, but never despair.  That would be very poor taste indeed.”

“There he is!  At bloody last.”

Dorian might have imaged one of their scouts flinching “Ah, yes.  Might want to curtail the use of the word “bloody”, it seems to make the locals nervous”

This time a few of the hardier scouts joined in with Felix’s laughter, teasing their more squeamish companion.  Dorian relaxes a bit, at least enough to appreciate the remainder of his meal, and enjoy the more companionable silence that falls between Felix and himself.  For the first time in a long while, it feels as if things are returning to normal.

 _“Except it isn’t.”_ Dorian’s conscience evilly whispers. 

He allows this may be true, after all one need only look as far as the blackened farmhouse overseeing their waypoint.  The world is currently tearing its self apart and normal, Dorian knows, is really just another illusion.  With effort, he drags his attention back to Felix who is once again looking at him pensively.

“I’ll be ok, Dorian.”

“What?”

He sighs and grins his little lop-sided grin “You really can be obtuse.  Why are you coming back with me?”

Dorian sputters “Well…there’s so much to be done.  Your father’s work…the Venatori….”

“Are all things that can be fought here,” Felix cuts him off “with the Inquisition.”

“No,” Dorian is emphatic “we must strike while the iron is hot.  The Magisterium needs to be addressed!”

“We have friends and allies in the Magisterium, Dorian.  You know this.”

“I can be of more assistance….”

“Saving the world.” Felix cuts him off again, this really is becoming a habit.  “Do you think if I were well, I wouldn’t be riding back to Haven with the Inquisition?  Doing my part?”

“Yes.” Dorian whispers as he watches his oldest friend transmogrify into something more awe inspiring.

“Fucking right I would!” Felix thumps his knee emphatically, earning some amused and (Dorian thinks) admiring stares from their escort.  “You are twice the mage of anyone I know, your place is here not courting the Magisterium.  Leave that to me.”

“You?” Dorian blinks.

“Why not?”

“But your illness!  You have no idea how these meetings will tax you.”

Felix snorts “With luck, I’ll gasp my final breath at the lectern.”

“Felix!”

“Dorian,” Felix holds up a hand to stop the coming tirade “I want to help, I need to help…my father’s legacy must stand for more than treachery!”

He’s pacing in agitation, but stops to fix Dorian with his gaze once more “And you…you must show them that Tevinter stands for more than blood magic and despotism.

Dorian stares at Felix, but he does not see him.  Instead he sees a pair of hazel eyes, still blurry with sleep, imploring him to stay.

_“I…the Inquisition…could use your help.  This is far from over.”_

“M’lord,” a quiet voice startles him out of his reverie and Dorian turns to see one of the scouts (he cannot be certain, but he thinks it might be the one who flinched earlier) “if you are afraid for your friend, don’t be.  I swear to you that we will treat him as a brother and guard him with our lives.”

Dorian takes a deep breath and nods tightly “See that you do, he has important work.  Now, which of you can tell me how to get to Haven?”


End file.
